Heart of the Dark Zone
by Stuch
Summary: Second-wave Division agents are being actively recruited in preparation for an inevitable fight for The Dark Zone. One agent finds himself trapped between the LMB, rogue agents and the Government while he travels further into the shady world of The Dark Zone itself. Uncovering its inhabitants and its secrets.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Loving the game so far, The Dark Zone especially and how it offers some respite from the usual bland characterisation of games like this. The LMB is also of interest and how they turn things around for themselves after being abandoned. Anyway, just a little OC-centric delve into the murkier corners of what this game is offering us as players. Lemme know what you think. A useless observation but after seeing the first trailer, playing the beta and then hearing a bit of the music on the soundtrack, I can't help but associate this game with Pink Floyd's song "One Of These Days". I might work on a playlist.**

"I like this room, my favourite room. Major, you like this room?" The JTF officer remained silent, evidently not comfortable with either the room or the company, the voice turned to its other side, "I know my friend here likes this room, don't even need to ask."

"Drainage is excellent in here, messes disappear real quick," the enthusiastic reply. The three men along one wall of the small room with excellent drainage in the middle of the floor, under the chair and the fourth man sitting on it.

"What about you, agent?" the man in the middle looked at the chair, his face cast in shadow from the lamp-shade above, "What you make of it? Great view of the post office, Major's JTF hidey-hole that you guys carved out for him." He took two steps forward, into the light, glasses gleamed for a moment and at first glance looked like every other civilian hobbling through the streets of mid-town. The man in the chair noticed the right arm swung a little less as he walked, sure sign of extensive weapons training – the hand ready to go for a pistol even if there wasn't one. Moreover the confidence, the serene calm in a New York like this?

"I've been in nicer rooms, sir."

Laughter from the agent at the wall and the 'civilian' looked over his shoulder. "Sir?" back toward the chair, leaning in a little but still out of reach, "Only man in this room who gets 'sir' doesn't deserve it. Let's get this thing going, tick all the boxes. Major, sir, if you please."

The JTF officer stepped forward, visibly flustered. "Ummm-" cleared his throat, "Okay. Agent, this is an intelligence exercise, voluntary, y-you can leave anytime you wish. Firstly, do you recognise myself? For the record."

"Major Mark Watson, JTF liaison officer for Penn Plaza, sir."

"And do you recognise the other Division personnel in the room?" The agent stepped into the light. Big guy, AK slung over his chest, safety off. Equipment buffed and scratched but well cared for, active service. He winked and blew a kiss to the man in the chair.

"No, sir. I do not."

"And this gentleman, do you recognise him?" The man in the glasses smiled.

"No sir, I do not recognise him."

"Okay-" but the major was interrupted.

"Thank you Major. Back to your paperwork." Perhaps too used to always being involved in such things, it took the Major a few moments to realise the conversation didn't continue until he left the room. Neither Agent nor 'civilian' watched him leave, listening instead for the door being closed.

"Right," the man in the glasses clapped his hands as the standing agent brought another chair for him, "Now the adults can talk. Medvedik, Anthony. Is that Russian?"

Medvedik couldn't hide the surprise at his name being uttered without having given it first, the man had spook written all over him – CIA, NSA, whatever, he had access to Division personnel files – and here he was acting with near impunity in locked-down NYC, "Slovak."

"It's Slovak," the spectacled man said to his cohort who again repeated it, "From your father's side. Your mother's line is a little more... muddied. But I think I've proved my point."

"What's your name?" Medvedik swallowed the anger and confusion.

A low, long whistle in reply, "Oh, I dunno...-" over his shoulder, "-what do you think? John? That sound good?"

"John sounds good to me," the agent reset his grip on his firearm.

John turned back, "A week ago, little Anthony here starts going into the Dark Zone. Never had before, seemed happy enough wiping the JTF's ass for them, solving their problems. How come? You finally get some Division balls?"

"Heard it was worth my while out there."

John clapped his hands again, "Heard it was worth his while. Okay. Good. I like it when people cooperate. My friend hates it but his brain is in his neck, not his fault. Beside the point. Second question; when did you last speak to Agent Samuel Moss? Older gentleman, real weirdo. Calls himself- what was it?"

"Wildehonde," the agent replied, "I need to get myself a nickname."

"I haven't seen him in three weeks, we went out on patrol a few times in Hell's Kitchen," Medvedik muttered, the situation dawning on him. The hum of the bulb all his ears could focus on. Incessant, building, dropped out the instant someone spoke again.

"Three weeks," John stood up from the chair and turned, "You have those- yeah, those. Anthony says three weeks. When did you take these photos again?"

"Eleven days ago," the agent grinned, "They made a real cute couple up there, legs dangling off the roof. Real cute. Prom-night stuff."

John didn't let him see the photos, "Do I need to bother with these? My friend is getting excited because he thinks you're going to keep lying to me and he can take out some of his abandonment issues on you. But seeing as I'm good cop today, I know you're going to come clean with me. So what did the two of you whisper into each other's ear?"

A moment's doubt, a moment's questioning. Asking to see the photos an admission of guilt, likely to be punished. Not tied to the chair but a second away from a rifle butt to the face. His weapons by the door (Major said he wouldn't need them. Stupid for agreeing.) What choice was there but to play along? Medvedik answered, world-weary, "He did all the talking that evening. Wouldn't shut up."

* * *

Sound traveled far on the cold air, echoing along West 31st Street and over the wall to Medvedik's ears on the corner of 6th Avenue. By then the crack of rifle fire - full-auto, panicked - nothing but dull, small, pops. All the violence and hate reduced to a boot testing the snow. Samuel 'Wildehonde' Moss turned his ear to it, the two of them atop the roof of the corner, legs over the edge and gave his two cents, "Four blocks. Rioter trying to use a carbine, might be holding it side-carriage. One hand. Not much better than those we hit today."

Moss produced two soda cans from his pack, offered Medvedik one and broke into the other, "Pretend they're beers. Pretend it's Friday- wait, is it Friday? Pretend we closed some Wall Street deal and after a few more we slacken our ties down at some club. Listen to me, like I know any of that. Just happy they're cold. Just happy _it's_ cold, could you imagine the smell otherwise? The reek? A few more months and we might doing the same as the Cleaners just to give ourselves peace from it. But shit, good work today. To have someone who knows their stuff. Can always spot the real agents from the reservists."

Feeling Medvedik's disapproving look, he carried on, "Come on, you see them too. Did all the same training, same hoops, but something's missing and they hesitate. REMFs everywhere, even in the Division. All that Directive 51 talk, all that hush-hush, 'anyone could be an agent', fuckin' Manchurian Candidate stuff? Make us sound like a section of society in our own right when really we're just another slice of it. 'Could be your father, brother, sister, gardener, school teacher...' you remember all that? Like we're all fine, upstanding citizens doing our duty.

"Think there ain't cowards in the Division? Think there ain't gravy-train bastards using it to look good on their application for a government position? Guys who only _just_ made the grade coming out with us to boost the numbers? People thinking like some of us aren't real scumbags, same as the rest of society. Rapists, murderers, psychos? You can't have something as big and wide a net as the Division recruitment and not get people like that." On his feet then, pacing a little as he ranted. He pointed West, toward to the Post Office serving as headquarters.

"Maybe the quieter agents, guys who didn't quite know what they signed up for, maybe they're happy with the JTF lifestyle. Beds, food, aid, construction. Samaritan bullshit. Upstate fucks who act like this deployment is something of a commute from their real lives. It's all a sideshow for the real fight-" pointing Westward then, to smoke rising four blocks away in the Dark Zone, "-a cakewalk compared to what's in there. Where _we should be_ , what we should be doing. Even the JTF can handle the clowns out here. If this thing is gonna end, the Dark Zone is where that ending will be. And it will be a shit-storm. Whatever they say about the first wave; KIA, MIA. There's agents in there, living in there. Loving life in there."

He leant down to retrieve the soda and gestured again with it in hand, losing some of the contents, "I know I do. Ain't got no-one chatting in your ear. Small pox sure as shit don't jam radio waves, someone doesn't want to be heard. Two weeks since I been back and already getting the itch. It's too quiet out here and yet, too loud too. You get me? No? Oh man, you ain't been over?"

A long swig from the can, barely caught his breath and grey whiskers spread into a huge grin, "It's just- man, it's- honestly it's like all those shitholes around the world I used to get dropped in 'cept it's America! Best shithole there is! It's home. It's why I even signed up for the Division, doing what I love but like, _here_. Free license, lethal force. American Dream and Nightmare rolled into one. Second Amendment Fantasy. Hudson-side gives you the taste of it, the madness of it, but you got all this "rebuild" shit. Uncle Sam taking your finger off the trigger and- just pretending you're something you're not.

"JTF dudes will brown-nose us agents all day and then turn real quick to calling you psycho when you put a few too many bullets into a rioter. They bring us in to fix what they can't handle then have the audacity to question the methods?" Moss crushed the can in his hand and threw it off the building.

"More you're in there, I mean in the belly of it, the less you wanna be back out here. Growing to hate it almost. The more you find out about the place, about _yourself._ But like I said, time's coming when the Dark Zone will need to be taken back. You think those agents who love the place, ones who've swung over and never come back, think they're gonna give up their playground? Time's coming. Days, weeks, months, doesn't matter. Division agents are gonna have to make a choice?

"Do we fight to return things to how they were? Before they even were agents, fight for that life back? Or for this new world that some agents are building for themselves?" Moss put out a hand to help Medvedik to his feet and finished off, "Gonna find a safe house, get some shuteye and then I'm heading back in. See you around."

* * *

John leant back in his chair, letting the front legs raise a little from the floor, "See now that's real interesting."

"If it's even true," the agent piped up. Medvedik glared in his direction.

"Anthony has no reason to lie to us," John tried to calm things, "He's backed up a lot of what we know already, a few more questions and he can go back to baby-sitting. Have you heard of the Last Man Battalion? Charles Bliss? Aaand- where is it, had him written dow- Aaron Keener?"

It all meant nothing to Medvedik, "No. I can't help you on any of that. Is that all?"

"Of course, we're all done here. You've been very helpful and we're both very grateful," John smiled and folded up his papers, "My friend will very kindly pass you your weapons, cos he's helpful like that and off you pop."

Medvedik retrieved his equipment and put out his hand to shake with John. The agent laughed, "Can you believe this guy? Fuck off Anthony."

Both men waited until he left before John said, "You believe him?"

"I do. On all counts," the agent softened without a target around, "He ain't green and likes to hide in plain sight. I can see why Moss likes him."

"Follow him."


	2. Chapter 2

The great, black, tarps heaved away from buildings on the winter's breeze, until the ever-loosening ropes seemed to remember their purpose and snapped them back into place. Biohazard symbols warped and folded like the stars and stripes. The sky, a brilliant blue, made Medvedik only more uneasy about the wall - built of entire city blocks - and even the midday sun did nothing against the cold. Moss planted the seed in his head, the desire to go in and take a peak at the place. The first two incursions dark, foggy and without incident Almost dull, an anti-climax to Moss' grand opinions.

And yet.

The mood, that constant tension and apprehension - the unknown. Patrols for the JTF long-since become routine and uneventful, even with contacts and flying lead. Adrenaline pumped hard in the Dark Zone without firing a single shot, seeing a single other figure. Of course he scarcely traveled a single block away from the checkpoint, fear of the place - all the stories whispered in safe houses throughout Midtown - stopped anything more than dipping his toe in the shallow end.

But that spook the day before set his gears turning, pushed him further and added to the resolve to go deeper. But why? Last Man Battalion? Bliss? Keener? All meant nothing to him, there had been no lie there, but the information stuck with him and he tried to place Moss in the mess of pieces. Only find the answers in one place. At the entrance to the checkpoint with no memory of walking up to it. Unlocked and opened and inside, a world of responsibilities melted away behind him.

The checkpoint blacklights brought back all those splatters of blood Medvedik thought he'd cleaned off forever. The gloves especially. The female agent manning the place eyed him as though putting a dollar value to everything he carried and another on his head. The chewing of gum echoed inside the mask. He hesitated a little too long, not taking that decisive step further on, because she struck up conversation.

"Welcome to the Dark Zone. Scared? Should be, Wild West out there," she dragged out the analogy when Medvedik didn't reply, "Gonna need a better six-shooter to round 'em up in there."

"Not scared," he replied, "Just enjoying the warmth in here."

"Shaking like a shitting dog," laughter visible only in the eyes, "First time?"

"Yeah," he lied.

"I see agents get the jeebies every single time, it's no big," her stance seemed to soften, "But I always see them again on their way back in. Only door I don't see them come back through-" she motioned further inward, "-is that one. Listen, any decent stuff you find I'll buy off you."

She filled the silence. "What you packing anyway?" half the expression of her eyes lit in buzzing, black, light, "I got ammo for you; NATO rounds for that M4 and- oh shit, maybe some forty-fives. Nice piece, kinda hope you die so I can get my hands on that. Lotta guys looking for an M1911. Cold out there today, need a hat? Only got one hole in it, one former owner!"

But Medvedik ignored her and took the step further. And another. Until at that inner door all sense of procrastination gone from his mind. Focus now on getting answers even if he still didn't know the questions, follow them all the way inside no matter what or who he encountered. The clang of the reinforced door behind him only exaggerated the silence afterward. The place refused to live up to its name with brilliant, afternoon sun lighting up 5th Avenue ahead of Medvedik and dazzling him in reflection off the Empire State Building. He might have seen up the avenue for miles for not the debris of failed emergency response.

Abandoned cop cars, ambulances, garbage trucks created a make-shift maze across the intersection with East 32nd. Hollow creaks, thumps and the crackling of an already shattered windscreen as Medvedik scrambled to a taxi's roof for a better view up the avenue. Much the same block after block. He remembered being on Fifth as a child, family trip to NYC a lifetime before, gazing up at the Empire State with no small sense of awe. He once knew exactly how tall it is but the fact had long slipped from his mind. His father always complained about holiday photos being ruined by having people in them, wondered if he might have made those same complaints now.

North seemed the best route, a straight cut until he ran into... something. Anything. Anyone. Dog still looking for the scent it was supposed to be following. He put the vantage to good use and figured the best route through the gridlocked 'traffic' before thinking about stepping back down from the vehicle's roof. He was to be cut short in his maneuver.

"Well well! You lost dude? You look lost." Voice to the right, Medvedik lifted his hands to the grip on his- "No no no! Your hands are just fine above your head! Give me and the boys a little twirl round this way." He turned to find a group of six rioters at the crosswalk to the east. Masks, hoods, machine pistols held side-carriage, baseball bats. And attitudes. "Guys got some nice gear on him," the same voice, presumably the gang's leader, came through a red bandanna over his mouth, "Agents always got the good shit. Six on one, my man. What's your plan?"

Keeping his hands in view, Medvedik crouched on the roof and started to lower himself to the car's hood. This put the roof between him and the gang, gave him a second to think. "Hey! Come back out where we can see-" But Medvedik made his move, already in a low crouch he rolled off the hood to the front of the car and was followed instantly with rounds popping through the windscreens and down each side of the taxi. The engine block absorbed any dangerous fire and he waited for them to reload. They had no discipline, fired wild and wasted whole clips shooting at nothing.

He picked his moment to peek around the headlight and let off a few bursts at them from his carbine, not accurate but enough to force them into cover. Moving as fast as crouching would allow he bounded the route through the vehicles he mapped out from the taxi. Up the Avenue, looking for any open doors or quick alleys. Shouting behind him but he didn't make anything out. No bullets meant they couldn't see him and he used the cover to make his next move.

"Find that fuck! Slippery fuckin' bastard!" Medvedik used a burnt out cop car, flipped onto its side to disappear down an alley to left - dead end - and with the snow muffling his footfalls, sped down to the nearest nook in the wall. Hugely aware of his visible breath and against the heart thumping in his chest, controlled his burning lungs as best he could. He listened to the impotent strikes of baseball bats against cars and shouts of anger. "You two! Down to the right, you two left! You with me! Check every door!" Four voices fell quiet and the other two took their slack.

"Shit man, splitting up against an agent?"

"Shut up."

"I'm jus' sayin-"

"I knows what you sayin' and I'm sayin' shut up. Get that pistol up, come on. No slackin'." Medvedik fought his entire body to only breathe slowly through his nose, desperate to hear the crunch of snow and work out how many more steps before he could make his move. He let his carbine hang loose and very quietly drew his .45 and knife. The pistol awkwardly under his chin, pointed outward. Readied. Knife in the left hand.

Those little crunches, two pairs. Ten feet. Seven. Five. Three. Barrel. Glove. Arm. Medvedik lunged out from his hiding place with the element of surprise, hit the firearm downward with his knife hand and weaved to the right to put a body between himself and the other. The action all muscle-memory for his pistol. Two in the chest, one in the head. No way he could take them both out silently, the shots would draw the others and he grabbed the surviving gang member by the neck and put the knife to his throat. Spun his human shield around ready for the other four to appear.

"You are so dead- OW SHIT!" Medvedik drew a few drops of blood to quiet him.

"Only one dead so far and it's not me."

"We can change that!" a shout from the end of the alley, out of sight. A head peeked round and all four came into view, the leader continued, "Dead end for you agent, even if we have to kill-"

"Oh come on guys!" Panic from the human shield.

"Even if we gotta take out our buddy too. Worth it."

He raised his machine pistol, "Welcome to the Dark Zone-"

The rounds came from the left, two-crack bursts arriving a moment after viewing their impacts. Pink mist from the first head to go down, thick heavy blobs spilled outward from the impacts with torso, legs swept out from under as kneecaps shattered. The snow turned gaudy pink in places, black in others. Only one scream quickly ended with a more accurate follow-up.

Four bodies at the end of the alley. Gunshots still echoed in Medvedik's ears but no longer the air. The sole survivor of the gang not struggling in his grip, resigned to fate, though Medvedik still kept a tight hold in case a human shield were needed. Silence again but for both of their heightened breathing, waiting for something to appear from the end of that left-hand wall. Medvedik still aimed his pistol at where the riot gang had stood, noticed at last and adjusted to be ready for whatever came round.

"Hooo-weee! What a rush!" The voice frantic with excitement, a silhouette of an AN-94 appeared first - the weapon reminded Medvedik of his father. The twang picked up again as a black ski-mask appeared around the wall, "Y'all okay? Had to pick my moment- man, you see those guys drop?" Voice muffled by the ski and gas mask. Medvedik didn't reply or respond, didn't lower the pistol. The man let his rifle hang from his chest to roll up his sleeve, revealing the familiar, orange glow.

"Friend of yours?" Medvedik felt the rioter's throat move against the tip of his knife.

"Keep quiet."

The agent unrolled the sleeve and without re-readying his weapon, focused on the bodies. Walked over and checked them one by one, "Nine mill, nine mill, nine mill. Just once- once! Wish these clowns would have some five five six or seven six two. Let alone what I need for THIS Russian bad boy. Amateurs, man, am I right? You get me. There's a reas-" he heaved over one of the corpses to check pockets, "- reason these guys hang out this far downtown, away from anybody of actual skill or training.

"Slug's a slug I guess but they ain't even buying these things-" held up one of the rioter's machine pistols and tossed it, "-at the checkpoints no more. Pieces of scrap." Swung his pack from his shoulders and stuffed the looted magazines inside.

"Saved your life," the agent slung his newly heavy pack back over one shoulder, "Where you from? Virginia man myself." Casually walked down the alley toward Medvedik as though no pistol were trained on him. Stopped at arm's length, tip of the barrel purposely left prodding the shoulder. The hostage in his arm struggled ever harder against the its grip, against the knife point on the neck. The closer the ski-mask got, the greater the struggle.

He repeated himself, "Where you from? No manners?"

Medvedik lowered the side-arm, "Born in the Midwest but moved to-" his hostage struggled briefly and violently before he went instantly limp. It felt like the sound reached him much later. A crack that shot pain through his ear and the agent's pistol loomed large in Medvedik's periphery, drawn as quick as the other had been holstered. The agent's breathing calm and his movements assured, hand rock-steady.

But the eyes, sickly white against the black ski-mask, wide and staring. Nowhere but locked with his own as the gun drawn and the hostage executed. The eyes grinned at him. Told him more about what awaited him in these expansive city blocks than any after-action report could have. Those long, slow breaths emerged from the gas mask like a cartoon bull. No change in the tone of his voice, "But moved to?" The pistol didn't lower from the lolled head of the corpse Medvedik then had his knife to. Blood and chunks on his shoulder.

"Moved to New Hampshire when I was a kid," the reply carried a forced level of calm, fighting against the jackhammer in his chest and ringing in the ear. He let the body drop to the snow.

The agent holstered the pistol and put his arm through the other shoulder strap of his backpack, "Welcome to the Dark Zone, yankee." Medvedik remained rooted to the spot long after the agent disappeared from the end of the alley.

 **Author's Note: Thanks to the favourites and follows. Happy to know people are reading. Chapters form in funny ways. Where to start and end and where to go in-between, how it continues what is going on in the story. In this case I started with the end of the chapter - almost the final image - and worked my way backwards. The ski-mask, the steam spilling from his mask and the crazy eyes. Needed to show my character is not ready for the place and an idea what "being ready" looks like.**

 **Second track for the impromptu Division playlist is "Sirius" by Alan Parsons Project.**


End file.
